


Lighthouse (The Lost in the Fog Extended Mix)

by time_converges



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Relapse, Remix, Season/Series 03 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-30
Updated: 2015-05-30
Packaged: 2018-04-01 22:19:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4036594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/time_converges/pseuds/time_converges
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>People who are in grief come to Mary Watson like birds to a lighthouse.  Joan is no exception.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lighthouse (The Lost in the Fog Extended Mix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sanguinity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanguinity/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Lighthouse](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2902814) by [sanguinity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanguinity/pseuds/sanguinity). 



It’s five weeks after Sherlock vanishes to London, leaving only a note that still makes her stomach knot when she thinks of it, that Joan finds herself on her mother’s doorstep. Over tea she relates the details of her latest cases, using extra care to emphasize the humorous or dramatic details. She forces a bright tone to her voice, but she sees her mother take in her tense shoulders. She never could hide from her mother.

“I’m glad to hear the business has been thriving,” Mary says. “I never doubted you would be able to handle things in Sherlock’s absence.” 

Joan watches her face carefully, and she can tell her mother is sincere. She smiles a little, anticipating the subject change just before her mother adds, “And how are you?” 

No escape from this, but still worth an attempt at deflection. “I’m fine.” She tries to think of something other than work that will reassure her mother, but comes up blank. She can’t talk about Mycroft, not the truth, and the lies are even worse. She certainly can’t tell her about the nightmares. “Really. I’m fine.”

“And Sherlock?” Mary prods.

Joan’s stomach ties itself in a knot again. She pauses, considering what to say. “He’s fine,” would be too glib, similarly, “He’s working,” but what else can she say? There’s been no word from him, and she stopped trying to call or text him weeks ago. She hopes he’s safe. She misses him so much it makes her breath catch. She can’t even bring herself to walk past the brownstone. She looks up to see her mother’s eyebrows raise in warning, and she sighs.

“I don’t know,” she confesses. “I haven’t heard from him.”

“Busy with his brother’s estate?”

Right, he’s supposed to be dead, she thinks. “Probably. There’s several Michelin-star restaurants. The one here, of course, another few in London. Paris.” She can hardly say it, remembering how everything, all the lies, lead back to there. “I expect it’s been chaos just trying to keep them all going, but he has to find a buyer, too.” She wonders if he really is doing any of that, or if he left it all to his father. She flinches away from imagining the conversation where he had to tell Mr Holmes the news. Or worse, the funeral.

You two had a falling out,” Mary says, and Joan glances up at her quickly, her breath catching. She should have known better than to try to hide anything from her.

“He left a note,” she says, finally. She remembers the note with the five sentences that had ended everything. She had been tempted to burn it, but that wouldn’t have erased them from her memory. Nothing would. _You don’t need me,_ he had written. But she knew it really meant he didn’t need her anymore.

The words come out in a rush. “He dissolved our partnership with a note, and I can’t get him to return my calls.” It’s a relief to finally give in, to let out the fear and grief she’s been holding in, trying not to fall apart.

Her mother reaches across the table to touch her hand. “Tell me what happened,” she urges.

So she does.

***

It’s three days after Andrew’s funeral that her mother appears on her doorstep, bearing food and tea. She steps aside and lets her mother in to bustle around the kitchen as Joan sits on the sofa, silent.

“How are you?” Mary asks, and Joan realizes she’s had to repeat herself before she was even heard.

“I’m fine,” Joan replies. She half-heartedly gathers the papers on the coffee table to make room for the tray her mother is preparing.

“I see someone has been feeding you,” Mary says, approvingly, when she opens the freezer stuffed full of meals.

“Sherlock,” Joan says quietly. 

“Hm,” Mary says, as she fills the teapot and places it on the tray. She brings the whole tray over to the coffee table, sits next to Joan, and pours for both of them. Joan wraps her hand around the cup, craving the warmth. Her hands seem to always be cold.

“Why are you here?” Joan asks.

“I’m worried about you,” Mary says. “A mother’s prerogative, to be sure. I thought you’d come see me…but then, you didn’t.”

“There’s no need to worry about me, I’m fine,” she repeats. 

“Joan, it might have been you,” her mother says gently.

She looks up, startled. Of course, she had done everything possible not to think of that possibility. What if she hadn’t switched the cups? What if the poison had found its true target? She thinks of Sherlock fixing her meals, quietly and carefully, and of how she keeps catching him watching her, something familiar yet not-familiar in his eyes. She realizes he’s been thinking of all the what-ifs that end with her on the floor of the coffee shop instead of Andrew. She supposes that’s what is in his nightmares, unlike hers. Hers all end the same, with Andrew – or worse, Sherlock -- on the floor, and herself helpless to do anything.

“But it wasn’t,” she says, and she can hear the sadness in her own voice. It wasn’t, and wouldn’t be. Andrew was gone and she was here, and nothing would change that.

“He was a good man,” Mary says.

Joan closes her eyes. “Yes.”

“But you didn’t love him,” her mother continues.

Joan opens her eyes, and shakes her head. “No. I tried. But no.” 

“That’s not your fault, either,” Mary says, resting her hand on her arm gently.

“He died because he knew me. That’s my fault.”

“Joan, I hate to be the one to tell you, but you don’t actually control the rest of the world.”

She shrugs. Maybe not. But this she should have foreseen, and controlled for. She won’t make that mistake again. She sits and sips the tea while her mother tidies up the apartment a little. She doesn’t touch the food, which earns her a sharp look from her mother when she sits down again.

“Now, why don’t you tell me what happened,” her mother says. “Everything.”

So she does.

***

It’s two days after Sherlock returns to the brownstone disheveled and guilt-ridden, coming down from the high, that she finds herself on her mother’s doorstep once again. Her eyes fill with tears when her mother opens the door, concern and confusion on her face.

“Joan? What is it? What’s wrong?” Mary asks, and Joan can feel her taking in the circles under her eyes, her slept-in clothes.

“He relapsed,” is all she can say before her throat closes over the tears she refuses to let fall.

Her mother takes her hand and draws her inside. “Come in, dear, we’d better have some tea, and you can tell me what happened.”

So she does.

This time she doesn’t leave out the nightmares.


End file.
